posted on Oct, 29 2015 @ 11:23 PM
Part V continued from above...
Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw movement but when I shone my flashlight in that direction all I saw was another doorway. As I walked
toward it I could make out scratches in the floor below and in the door as well, not made by any tool, but wedge shaped, likely made by the feet of
the monstrous hill-folk. The door seemed sealed shut but I managed to lower my shoulder and power through the old, but sturdy, lock.
Immediately my face twisted in a cruel caricature, half-crying and half-crazed, for here behind locked door I found the Professor. Mangled beyond
imagining but still painfully recognizable I collapsed to the floor and sat with hand over mouth shaking my head slowly. I'd seen a number of murder
victims during my time in New Hampshire but I had never seen anything so hateful and cold done to a corpse. I sat for a few moments before my courage
finally returned to me at the thought that whatever did this had to still be in the building. It seemed an absurd notion given the small cramped size
of the office I was currently in and I shot up fully alert at the sound of creaking wood and a slam of the door.
Nothing. Nothing but that achingly old and ever churning winter wind slamming against the outer door. Wiping the sweat from my brow I turned back to
the mutilated body of Professor Horner and at once my vision was drawn to the Professor's hands. I put on one of my gloves and bent down prying the
tightly clutched collection of papers from the man's right hand and the twisted cane of Alimander Gaffney from the left. I lifted the papers placing
them at once on the nearby table and holding my small flashlight between my teeth as I spread them out.
Here, in full maddening and rigorous scientific detail, were all of the discoveries that Gaffney had made. It wasn't just a diary but records, notes,
diagrams, calculations, astronomical charts and plots. Everything was here with all the latent Cosmic horror of untold eons dripping from every drop
of ink. I began to read and soon found that the entries had an order to them, beginning with sane observations of a man of a science and gradually
revealing a devolution into a cruel and pious zealot. Gaffney had found the hill-folk, only they truly weren't like the fairies and the trolls,
although those legends are vague reflections of truth.
Instead they are the Old Ones, the Elder Things, the nameless beings that lived in the vast Cosmic seas of potentiality long before our Cosmos had its
current shape and form. In those endless rifts of indelible night intelligences moved and creatures evolved. From their realms of death they had found
a way inside our material Universe and in all the myriad of forms they took many of them came down to us through the ages as monsters and gods.
Before mankind could even stand upright, before our ancestors could even speak, before the Old Star had even burst, they came down and saw potential
in the swirling accretion of gas and debris that would one day be our Earth, our solar system. It wasn't our world at all, Gaffney had written, it
belonged only to that species which could truly hold it. For the Old Ones there were countless other worlds beyond the black stone of Yoggoth where
great Yog-Sothoth waited to open the gate.
When the stars were right they could return and were already preparing for that glorious day during Gaffney's lifetime and if the stars were not
right there were those that had the power to make them so. Gaffney lamented the truth and hated the Old Ones in his initial writings but soon he wrote
of happily returning to Devil's Hill to sink into the abyssal reaches of time and space. He told of a future where the Old Ones would reclaim the
world and tame the Universe and usher in a new age of revelry and cruelty and abject freedom of will.
For the sake of my sanity I gathered the letters and told no one about them. Even after I alerted the CCSD to my grisly discovery I kept the diaries
a secret. The cause of death, despite the garish wounds, was found to be exposure to the cold. He had locked himself in while being pursued, I
reasoned, though forensics could find no evidence of forced entry. For a time I was a suspect, due to my strange behavior and my eventual resignation
from the Sheriffs Department, at having mutilated the body but with no evidence no charges were ever pressed. Due to the coldness of that Winter the
case was largely written off as the death of an old man due to the elements.
I am quite sure now that I am being watched and the longer I keep Gaffney's journals and notes the more danger I am in that they will find me. I have
managed to keep moving but the more I look the more I see signs of the cult everywhere. Even the more wholesome and familiar of the American religions
now appear to have sinister undertones. Prayer and supplication before an eternal throne. A distant day of judgment when only the servants of God will
be spared his wrath. The pieces are there for those who want to put them together, those with enough curiosity to risk their sanity.
These secrets may die with me and so I to am writing of my experiences. I will keep this document near the notes of Alimander Gaffney which will
vindicate with science what I have recounted with my layman's intellect. I have also begun to suspect that my Grandfather too had been plagued by
these mysteries as he grew older. In the years since the events of November 2011 I have gone through the materials my Grandfather gave me. Much of it
is old family photo albums dating back into the early days of photography.
Among the more interesting materials however was a strange wax cylinder wrapped in a note from Gaffney and marked with a tag reading – Rites of the
Old Ones, as Recorded atop Devil's Hill Vermont AD 1881. Luckily I do not own, or wish to own, a phonograph to play the old cylinder but I can imagine
quite vividly the screeching, howling, and humming and those insidious words that accompany them. The note, scribbled hastily in the handwriting of a
“When the dancing stars begin and the gibbous moon is red. The Old Ones will arise and fill our hearts with dread. They dream, in kingdoms
far beneath with thrones beyond the sky. That is not dead, which can eternal lie and with strange aeons even death may die.”
Our own brief blink of time will one day come to a close and I fear what lies in wait. What hidden truths are buried in the periphery just beyond the
reach of our telescopes, the crash of our particle accelerators and the folklore and ghost stories we once enjoyed in our youth? I fear I know too
much of those truths but with the writing of my story it is not a burden I need bear alone.
Look to the skies. Listen closely. On those bleak winter nights when all is calm you may see the dead return to life, the stars move from their
marks, and hear the Old Ones calling.
The Ghost at Gaffney's Grave